Speak
by Rayven49
Summary: Traces Deplorable Word through multiple centuries and worlds. Charn, Narnia, London. Can Digory warn Frank in time? Will Edmund succumb to temptation? What does Susan choose? No slash, no time travel. Can be read with "The Lion and the Fox" or standalone. Violence, mild sexuality.
1. One: Digory

**Welcome, newbies, to my dark Narnia 'verse. And to returning old hands, you know how dark it gets. Bring a torch.**

 **This story traces multiple characters through multiple worlds and multiple centuries. I've got it all written, so I'll post regularly. If I get reviews, it'll be every few days. If not, it'll be slower. You've been warned.**

 **Also, anyone know what's happening with this year's Honoring the Heroes awards…?**

 **All the people who I've gotten alerts from but haven't been able to contact via PM, your kudos are at the bottom of this chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **One: Digory**_

 **Cair Paravel Year 1**

 **-/-/-**

Digory has already decided the library-that-is-not-yet-a-library is one of his favorite places in this new world. The arching ceilings, the high windows with warm beams of sunlight drifting through, the towering shelves that stand empty, waiting.

But not, Digory knows, for long.

He thinks it is wonderful that in this palace the Lion sang into existence just two days prior, He gave so much space to the library-that-is-not-yet-a-library. Digory can already feel this place will be a haven, a center of learning, a safe space for anyone who needs it—as the public library is for him back in England.

He knows they are going back soon, he and Polly, and the apple weighing heavy in his pocket sends a thrill of gladness through him: he will not be too late. His mother will be saved.

But other knowledge sits on his shoulders, rattles in his mind, and roils the guilt in his heart. He thinks of the usurping queen he has awakened, and the hunger in her eyes when she beheld first London, then Narnia, worlds teeming with life. She will try to take them someday, rule their peoples as slaves. She will have the means to do so. All she must do is speak one simple Deplorable Word.

He has a secret, and it is this secret that will crush him. The knowledge. The fear.

He knows the Deplorable Word.

Not all of it, not exactly. But he knows enough to make a guess at what is written on the scrap of paper in his pocket, nestled next to the life-giving apple, in a bold, scrawled hand.

She had drawn him aside for a just a moment, the Queen of Charn, when Polly wasn't looking (how could she not have known? why didn't she stop them? no, not Polly's fault, mustn't blame Polly—). She had seemed inclined to give him a gift since he had freed her from her frozen enchantment, and had offered him the crumpled paper.

"I have no need of this anymore," she'd said quietly, though her glittering eyes lingered on the paper as it lay folded in Digory's outstretched palm, spotted with brownish-red stains "It's up here—" she'd tapped a bone-white finger against her temple "—and it's already given me everything. But you…" She looks at him then, and he shudders. "I see a hunger in you, a desire to know. And so I am giving you a way to know. But careful with it now—careful!" Her hand had closed over his with the paper inside. He had half-expected his fist to burst into flame. "We can't all get what we want." Her eyes had slid over to Polly, wandering the far corner of Charn's decaying throne room, and then she had looked back to him. And he had nodded.

Now the paper rests in his pocket, because try as he might he could not get it to burn, and he sits at a desk in the library with a sheaf of freshly-bound papers and a quill dark with ink, hesitating. He has already spotted the first page with drips as he delays, and he turns to the second before the ink dries. He can see it through the back of the page, streaking across the sheet and onto the desk. When he finally moves to set the quill to the page, he curses quietly in language Frank the cabby would have been comfortable with on the streets of London, but now would find wholly unfamiliar. The ink has dried.

Dipping the quill once more, he settles over the page and has just drawn his first stroke when the library doors bang open and Polly calls, "Digory!"

He startles, upends the inkwell with a crash that shatters the glass on the floor and splatters his shoes. Through the maze of empty bookshelves, Polly's footsteps wend towards him.

"I say, Digory, is that you?"

His mind a blaze of panic, he scribbles in as messy and rushed a hand as the original owner of Jadis's slip of paper, "USE ONLY IN DIRE EMERGENCY. WORD IS DEPLORABLE. COST WILL BE HIGH. TRUST TO—" but the quill is empty before he can say even half of what he wants, before he can tell where he got it, who gave it to him, what it does. He cannot even finish his advice to do anything else but use the Word. He is useless.

Digory stuffs the scrap of paper into the binding of the new book and whirls to place it on a shelf, but their emptiness confounds him. He cannot let this be the only reference book Narnia currently, publicly possesses. And so he shoves the book into the desk drawer and slides out of the chair and onto his hands and knees amongst the shards of the inkwell just as Polly turns the corner.

"Digory, there you are! I've been looking everywhere for you. The coronation about to begin. What are you doing down there?" Polly crouches, golden gown ballooning out as she settles next to him.

"Just cleaning. I was looking around at the new library and made a mess of things, as usual." He tries to grin, but his hand lands on a sharp piece of glass and his mouth twists into a grimace.

Polly tuts. "You're not even dressed yet. Digory, honestly, we're going to be late! Leave the mess, we'll come back tonight or tomorrow." She hauls him out from under the desk and shunts him through the library—it has one book now, so he can call it that—to get him changed and to bandage his hand the way she learned in Girl Guides.

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**

 **narutofanatic16: Thank you for favoriting "The Lion and the Fox"!**

 **A Loyal Narnian: Regarding your critique of ch20, Lucy says to Peter earlier, "I'd like for you all to meet Mr. Tumnus!" so Peter can infer that the house she's so upset about must be his. Thank you for your concern, though! Regarding ch27, the Witch has control over ice, so she melts the ice in his cup in order to dump the freezing cold water on Edmund's head. Regarding ch35, the movie score is epic, so I'm glad the chapter feels real enough to fit in! Thanks for reading all the way through, and for the one-shot suggestion! I appreciate all your comments.**

 **Ally1012: Thanks for favoriting "The Lion and the Fox"!**


	2. Two: Frank

**Thank you for your lovely responses! Without further ado, the next installment.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Two: Frank**_

 **Cair Paravel, Year 1**

 **-/-/-**

Digory and Polly never make it back after the coronation, and it is Frank who finds the book weeks later. He is directing the first shipment of tomes for the Narnian Royal Library, walking backwards down an aisle and waving his arms about as a crate is pulled along by two strong Horses, whose names are, of course, unpronounceable.

"A bit farther, a bit, just a—oh!" He backs into the desk, and something inside shifts. He glances at it, then sees the glass on the floor, and frowns. "All right, thank you both, sirs," he says, unhitching the Horses from the crate. "I think that will be all for today."

"Shall we tell Queen Helen you are ready to sort the books, Your Majesty?" the Horse whose name sounds akin to Broohoohroohee asks respectfully.

"Oh, um, yes. Thank you," he says again, bending to inspect the glass and blue-black stain on the wood floor that Aslan sang into being not a month ago. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he cleans up the glass, moves near the lit fireplace to examine the shards. One is brown with old blood, and he throws the mess on the flames quickly, handkerchief and all.

Remembering the desk, he returns, studying the gleaming oak surface. Seating himself in the cushy chair, he runs his hands across the top, then shoves.

Though the desk is large, it is not yet full, and so it shifts with a screech. Something inside thuds as it moves.

Briefly, Frank closes his eyes. "It could just be a Creature," he tells himself, "a little Mouse caught inside and frightened out of its mind, poor thing. Best take a look." Even so, he draws his dagger from his belt before yanking open the top drawer.

No little Mouse comes rushing to greet him, so, feeling distinctly foolish and a bit afraid, he reaches inside. His hand closes on a sheaf of paper and a snapped quill. He sets both on the desk, staring.

A book in an empty library.

The book has no protective cover, but the front page is blank except for trails of dried ink. Frank places his dagger on the desk and reaches for the broken quill, which he uses to lift the first page. It comes unstuck after a moment's prodding, and the rushed, childish writing is clear as day: "USE ONLY IN DIRE EMERGENCY. WORD IS DEPLORABLE. COST WILL BE HIGH. TRUST TO—"

Frank thinks of Digory and Polly, late to the coronation, Digory's hand swathed in bandages. Helen had murmured that the poor boy had ink on his ear, but she didn't dare tell him. And the desperate fire that had burned in his eyes all afternoon, then gone out abruptly when Aslan said it was time to go home...

What secret had Digory been keeping?

Frank picks up the book and flips through the rest of the pages—all blank—though a single scrap comes loose and flutters to rest on the desk. It is folded up tightly, and, like the glass, is stained with blood. Frank's stomach drops at the sight of it, though he is not sure why. With trembling fingers he unfolds the paper and mouths the single word written on it, though not a sound passes his lips.

The fire roars up and out of the fireplace, licking at the walls and mantle and clouding the room with smoke. Frank's chair topples backwards and he slams his head into the floor. From afar, he hears a scream.

"Helen?"

She swims into view, tearing down the new curtains and beating out the fire. He rolls to his knees, then stands, gripping the desk for support. The back of his neck is wet.

"Helen?"

The room is cold without the fire, and he finds himself shivering. She comes to his side, rights the chair and forces him into it, gasping over his injury.

"Let me get someone—"

"No!" He catches her hand and she turns back to face him, lips pursed. "No, old girl, there is something you must see first. But do not say it aloud, do not even breathe it. Just read."

Frank shows her Digory's book and the Deplorable Word.

When she has finished reading, she says, "Well." Snatching the scrap of paper out of his hand, she attempts to rip it to shreds.

It does not tear.

She drops it onto a glowing coal, whose fire goes out instantly. It will not burn.

She picks it up again, says, "Well."

Frank says, "My dear, I am afraid I do not know what to do."

Helen says, "First we will get a lock and key for this book. Then we will mix it in with the other books so it will not be noticed. And then—"

"—we will find out whatever we can about the Word and its history and write it down so whoever comes next to the Narnian throne knows better what they face."

Helen rolls her eyes. "I think before that we should have someone look at your head, hmm?"

Meekly, he agrees.

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**


	3. Three: Edmund I

**A/N: Apologies for being late on the upload, I lost track of the days. Finally getting to the actual story now. Thanks for your patience!**

 **Peter's 16, Susan's 15, Edmund's 13, Lucy's 11**

 **Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Three: Edmund I**_

 **Cair Paravel, Year 1003**

 **-/-/-**

Edmund gallops into the courtyard, flings himself off Philip, and hurtles into the Cair. Servants leap out of his way as he races through the halls, tripping over his feet every dozen paces or so. He's grown out of three different trouser lengths over two months, and burst the seams on more than one tunic. He can't be blamed for not knowing where his feet are when he's growing this fast—but not fast enough. Peter's still broader, Peter's still taller, Peter's still—might not be—Peter's still—could already be—Peter's still— _focus, Edmund, focus. Get there in time!_

He bursts into the library and nearly careens into a ladder, surprising a shriek out of Susan, perched atop it.

"Sorry, Su, sorry," he pants, steadying the ladder before pelting deeper into the labyrinth of shelves (where is it? where is it? why didn't he mark it? he knows why, but still, he might have marked it—).

"Edmund?" Susan calls after him. "What are you doing home? You and Peter said you would be in the Eastern Mountains another week at least; your last message said you had no leads on the Lampad…"

He runs his fingers over the labels on the shelves, muttering the references under his breath. _A Short History of Narnian Poetry_ (where is it? where is it? nearly there, surely), _Laedmon's Hymns_ (too far, too far) _How to Politick…_ (there!).

There.

He halts, craning his neck to see the upper shelves, which doesn't help the cramp in his side in the least. His new added inches show him the innocuous middling shelf he needs, the simple leather-bound book with the equally-simple lock. He could slash open the binding, wrench the book free, but he doesn't need to because he has the key.

It was in the library desk when he first went through it, tiny and gleaming. But when he'd picked it up, his hand had gone cold, then numb, and it had been too much too soon. He'd dropped it, slammed the drawer, and hadn't told Peter.

Later on, once he'd figured out what the key locked away, he'd picked it up again. When he'd felt nothing, Edmund slipped it onto a thin chain he wore around his neck. He still didn't tell Peter.

Later still, dead of night, he'd crept back into the library with a single candle, found the book, unlocked it, and read every handwritten page. It'd been Susan who found him at dawn adding his own entry to the book in a steady hand: "Jadis discovered how to use the Deplorable Word in a limited, malleable form in Narnia. Hypothesis I: changing the prefix or suffix of the Word, but keeping its root form, would enable the speaker to use the Word in any world, in any language, for chosen destruction. The destruction would be a weaker version of the mass annihilation she caused in Charn. This is of course theory, as no one but Jadis knows the pronunciation of the Deplorable Word, and she is dead.

"Hypothesis II: Jadis used the Word on me. I heard it. I can replicate it—"

Susan had closed the book. Without looking at her, he'd locked it, tucked the key back under his nightshirt. He'd let her put the book back on the shelf, let her lead him from the room holding his hand. They never told Peter.

He'd returned to the book a few more times over the next three years, purely for academic purposes, scribbling down the Old Narnian he thought might work best, calculating efficacy. But he remembers the very first entry, the anonymous child's scratching, their terror. Whoever they were, the child had known Jadis. She had given not one child the Word, but two.

He remembers the final entry, too, in elegant script, by the last true Queen of Narnia for a century. Swanwhite detailed how she was going out to fight the usurper queen and would not use the Deplorable Word, not even as a last resort. She would trust to—. But she didn't say to whom. She just trusted.

Well, Edmund trusts too. To information. To necessity. It is time.

The book falls open as Susan slips around the corner, and Edmund hears her sharp intake of breath. He flips through the pages, unseeing.

"Peter's not home yet, is he?" she asks quietly.

He closes the book and turns to face her, the key swinging freely. Her eyes follow the movement.

"It's not a Lampad," he says, voice cracking, as it always seems to now. "It's a great big bloody dragon, and Peter's alone with it."

He tries to brush past her but she follows, gripping his arm and matching his lengthened strides. Her free hand picks up her skirts.

"What happened to your soldiers?" she demands as they leave the library and head for the front entrance of the Cair.

He doesn't answer, and she bows her head. "Take more with you; take Oreius. At least let a healer look at your nose—"

"And allow more of our subjects to die?" He doesn't dare look at her, doesn't touch his throbbing nose or the blood that's caked there. "If this doesn't work, you need friends and guards you can trust. You'll have to evacuate. The dragon will burn anything in its path. Peter sent me home to warn you."

Susan digs in her heels and drags him to a stop. "No," she snaps, cheeks reddening, "Peter sent you _home_. To get us away. To get _you_ away."

He can't look at her.

"Edmund Aiden Pevensie," Susan says with utter control, and his gut churns, "you are disobeying a direct order from you brother, the High King."

He has no glib rejoinder, no loophole to slip through. But he thinks of Peter fighting amidst the corpses of their regiment and the mountain dwellers they had failed to defend, and he thinks of Peter's face as he'd drawn Edmund close and screamed for him to run.

He meets Susan's furious gaze. He says, "Yes."

As he dashes into the courtyard, Edmund calls over his shoulder, "Get everyone ready. Notify our allies. Tell Lucy—"

She appears then, at Susan's side. Her mouth is set in a grim line, but her eyes swim with tears. She clutches the cordial in her hands.

"Philip!" he yells frantically.

"Take Charro." Susan pulls Lucy close. "Philip is exhausted. He won't be fast enough."

The grooms bring forward his older sister's gelding while Philip stamps to the stable, fuming and covered in foam. His spindly legs shake.

Edmund swings onto Charro, who prances beneath him. He tucks the book into his saddlebag, gathers the reins, and looks back at his sisters.

Susan is already dictating instructions to Tumnus and Oreius, and none of them look at him. He wishes they would. He's glad they won't.

 _I'm already tainted._

Lucy steps towards him, knuckles white around the cordial, but she doesn't offer it to him. She can't.

Charro snorts, prances. Edmund digs his seatbones into the horse's spine.

Lucy tries to smile. "Trust to—"

Charro whinnies, rears, and takes off out of the courtyard, Lucy's words lost in a cloud of dust.

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**


	4. Four: Edmund II

**LAHH: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Four: Edmund II**_

 **The Eastern Mountains, Narnia, Year 1003**

 **-/-/-**

It seems a longer ride back to the foot of the Eastern Mountains, where Peter keeps the dragon at bay. Even as night falls and the shadows grow deceptive, Edmund sees no burned ruins along the path—no more than when they started out chasing this monster two weeks earlier, immediately upon receiving a plea for help from a Thrush whose nest was being threatened.

Everyone had thought it a rogue Lampad, a creature who could shoot fire from its hands and whose flames could cause madness. Though formidable in groups, a single Lampad was easily taken care of. Edmund and Peter had done so before, usually without the other. But the level of destruction this creature had caused raised suspicions, so he had accompanied Peter, despite his brother's protests, and had been sending regular reports back to the Cair so Oreius could dispense advice while continuing to heal an inflamed tendon (obtained in a routine patrol—the General doesn't like to talk about it).

And then nothing had gone as planned. The Lampad was in fact a dragon of a kind not seen in Narnia _ever_ , to anyone's knowledge. There were rumors of dragons in the Lone Islands, but on the mainland its closest relative was probably a salamander.

This beast was one hundred times the size, intelligent, though not Talking, and absolutely insane. It could not be driven off; it was on a pointless rampage, and it seemed to know they had no idea how it had arrived or how it could be killed. And so it was fearless.

The dragon killed their soldiers—good ones, all—slowly and delightedly over the course of three days. Any messenger they attempted to send for help was immolated in a column of flame.

Dawn had broken on the fourth day and Peter, battered but immovable, sent Edmund home. His eyes looked bruised in the early morning light as he steadied Edmund on the already-wearied Philip.

"Peter, please," he'd said, fighting the clogging of his nose, which had unfortunately connected with a rock sometime during the battle, "don't do this."

Peter had shaken his head. "I promised…" He shook his head again. "I promised. I know I did." He squeezed Edmund's ankle, brushed his hand over Philip's hide, and whispered, "Eddy, tell the girls: trust to—"

The bellowing roar of the dragon as it found their hiding place doused Peter's words, and Philip took off before Edmund could do more than yell as he watched his brother turn to face the enemy.

Leaning over Charro's back now, Edmund watches the near-dawn sky ahead, his mind on the book in his saddlebag. He's not sure why he brought it; only some vague superstition that he needs to be holding the evidence, the centuries of accumulated knowledge, for the evil magic to work.

He has no doubt that what he's about to do is evil. Obviously the magic comes from a Dark place if Jadis used it to obliterate an entire world; to carve so much deeper than his flesh when she breathed it in his ear in her ice prison. But for this…

He has no other choice. He won't let Peter die, not if there's anything he can do to stop it. Not when there's nowhere left to turn. Not when he's tried and tried, with no response.

 _Trust to—_

He trusts to this tangled mix of Old Narnian and Dark Magic. He gives one faint attempt at prayer, but cannot remember who to pray to because Charro has cantered up the last uneven slope, breath thin in his bellows-sounding lungs, and Edmund looks down the length of the Eastern Mountains into an unnamed valley. He finds Peter.

Peter, wavering on one leg, shield gone, helmet gone, something gleaming dripping from his arm. Rhindon shines in the light of a thousand suns, brighter than day, because the dragon is breathing fire.

It crouches before Peter, one eye sliced shut but armored scales intact. Its wings are shredded, but it digs in its bloody claws and crawls, churning up the ground.

They are tired, the both of them, beyond exhausted. Yet still Peter fights, though he thinks Edmund has gone—that he will die alone. Still he staggers out of reach of the dragon's flame, limps forward, eyes wild, teeth bared, as uncontrollable as the monster he battles.

Charro shies and tries to turn back, but Edmund draws the gelding up, calms him with a shaking hand through his black mane. He draws in a deep breath. It smells of sulfur.

Shouting, Edmund urges Charro down the mountainside. He drags the book from his saddlebag and holds it aloft, a death trophy. In his other hand he carries his sword.

The dragon's eye slides to look at him. Even Peter turns to stare in disbelief.

The dragon's body begins to glow with burgeoning flame, and Edmund rides closer still, nearly in the valley now. He must be close enough for the monster to hear its doom; he will take no chances. Charro thunders down the slope into the valley, drawing nearer to Peter and the beast with every second. _Oh, Peter,_ he thinks, _for what I am about to do, forgive—_

He is too late.

The dragonfire bursts from the creature's gaping maw with blinding brightness, but Peter, turned in joy and hope and dismay towards the unexpected return of his brother, does not see. As Edmund screams, Peter is engulfed in a halo of flame, his mouth stretching wide in agony. What's left of his armor melts, his hair turns to ashes, his skin, his eyes—

Standing in the stirrups, Edmund tries to say the Deplorable Word, twisted for this one moment. His mouth fills with smoke and cinders and the world goes black. He is encased in ice and the Witch's hands clutch at his heart, rip it from his chest, and she's laughing, laughing.

The roar builds inside the gaping hole where his heart should be and he sobs once, " _Aslan_ ," and hurls his sword.

As if the blade cuts through the darkness, he can see again. In the dim light, the dragon looks like just another mountain, his sword buried up to the hilt in its skull. Edmund cannot stop shaking, and when his fist tightens on the book, he feels it crumble to dust. The only real illumination comes from a small bundle of clothes, gently burning.

Edmund fell off Charro at some point, and now he staggers to his feet and tries to whistle for the horse, but his mouth is too dry. He has to find Peter, where is Peter, he was still…

He whirls and bolts for the clothes. Edmund yanks off his own armor and tunic, throwing the smothering cloth over the burning body. Because there is a body, not just clothes. There's Peter. The body twitches and makes an agonized, inhuman sound, and all Edmund can think is, _Good, that means he still has lungs,_ before he rolls Peter over and faintly registers himself screaming.

His brother is unrecognizable, indescribably burned. There's blackened bone.

One of Peter's eyes opens and focuses on him, and Edmund becomes aware he's speaking, chanting, in shock: "No no no no no…"

What remains of Peter's left hand spasms as though he tries to touch him, soothe him, and Edmund gasps, "Oh, Pete—" before howling for Charro. They have to get back to the Cair, to Lucy and the cordial.

There's a soft moan behind him and then Lucy drops to her knees at his side, fingers fumbling at the stopper of her crystal vial. "What happened?" she demands as she tips the fireflower juice into Peter's open mouth.

"The dragon—"

"Is it unconscious? I didn't have time to look." Her eyes don't leave Peter's face, waiting. Edmund stares at her.

"Wh—no, it's dead. I killed it."

"Alone?" She does look at him then, hair glowing in the torchlight of whatever guard she brought with her. She does not accuse, she never would, but he has to look away.

In a small voice he says, "I… don't know."

Peter groans, coughs up blood, and then continues to do so. Edmund reaches to sit him up, but Lucy shrieks, "Don't, his armor!" and he realizes the metal is still too hot to touch. He'd press the softened mail deeper into Peter's flesh.

"Why isn't the cordial working?" he cries. "Lucy, fix him!"

She looks as lost as he feels. "Doing it again won't change anything, but I don't understand…"

"What can we do?" He grabs her shoulders, shakes her, then just as quickly lets go, horrified.

Behind them, the guards shift subtly closer. Edmund feels the heat of their torches on his bare back and curls in on himself. He thinks of fires in the Witch's camp.

Lucy goes pale, her eyes well up. There is no condemnation there anymore, if there was any in the first place. "What can we do? We… we can make him comfortable."

They fall against each other for a moment, then Lucy calls for her guard and arrangements are quickly made to maximize the High King's comfort. They decide to wait to send a messenger to Susan. No one could get there in time anyway. Lucy left barely half an hour after Edmund.

It is Edmund who lifts Peter onto the makeshift bed—and, he thinks dimly, the funeral litter—that's been built for him. "Sorry, Peter," he whispers, though it seems inadequate.

Peter's lips move, but Edmund can't make out his words. He leans closer.

"… kill it?"

Edmund chokes on a wet laugh. "Yes, Peter, the dragon's dead. You battered it to pieces and I speared its head. It's over. You can rest now."

"… home?"

He can't speak for a moment as his entire body quakes with sobs. "Yes, Peter, we're going home. Just sleep until we get there, all right?"

Lucy slips a sedative down Peter's throat, and Edmund watches Peter's eyes until they close. Peter's lips move once more, but before Edmund can ask him to repeat himself, his brother is unconscious.

He isn't aware he's run away until he's halfway up the mountainside, and then he forces himself to wait because he knows, as an older brother always knows, when his baby sister is following him.

He sits, and Lucy arranges her own cloak around his shoulders before doing the same. Edmund draws the cloth tightly around himself, digging his fingers into the soft fabric, trying to still their trembling.

"Susan sent me," Lucy says without prompting. "She thought you were going to do something stupid." She dabs at his bloodied nose with a damp cloth. He hardly feels it.

"Guess I did." He tries to laugh again, but it turns into a racking cough.

Lucy passes him a water skin. "No."

"No?"

She twists to look at him, and in the faint torchlight her face seems lined and aged far beyond her years. Her eyes flicker gold. "Whatever you were going to do, you didn't do it, did you? Otherwise Peter wouldn't be… as he is."

Edmund's mouth twists. "Whatever blame you want to throw at me, I deserve it. I was a coward."

"Were you?"

"I had the ability to end this without Peter getting hurt, but then…"

"But then?"

"I couldn't." He closes his eyes, pounds his fists against his thighs. "I couldn't!"

Lucy catches his hands. "Why? What was it?"

He tries to exhale through his nose, but it's completely blocked with blood and swelling. He gasps out through his mouth instead. "I had… there was this Word the Witch used. It could destroy anything. I… I know it. I tried to use it…" Edmund stands, but faces her where she sits, appealing. "You weren't here, you didn't see all our soldiers—friends—die! You never saw that cursed dragon! Peter couldn't beat it. We had nothing left."

Lucy smooths her dirt-stained skirt. "You had your faith."

Edmund shakes his head. "He never came. We called and called."

"Are you certain? You said neither you nor Peter could kill the dragon, yet there it lies." Lucy flings an arm down towards the valley and the gray form there. The sky is lightening, but still the land is in shadow.

"But what about Peter? The Word—"

"But not _His_ Word. You did not trust to Him, Edmund, to Aslan, who has given us—given you—so much!" Lucy rises, brushes her fingers against his cheek. He flinches away, but her touch is gentle. "In the darkness we must turn not to the black, but to Him." She looks past him, over his shoulder. _"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me."_

Edmund ducks his head. His eyes sting and he rubs them, but finds no speck of dirt to remove. He half-expected a splinter of wood. Against his closed lids swims a vision of a crudely carved dragon and a tiny, boyish figure engulfed in flames. He forces back nausea. He has no right to be sick, not when Peter…

"Oh, Aslan." The cry slips heedlessly from his lips, and he shrinks from the sound. He doesn't deserve to speak His name, to ask for anything anymore. Even praise would be tainted.

Lucy watches him, hands folded.

"Lu, ask Him. Please. For Peter." His voice breaks.

She gives him a weak half-smile. "I have, Ed. And I know He hears me. But I don't think He is waiting to hear from me. I've done what I can. Now I trust to Him for what's best."

He gapes at her serene expression. "So if Peter—if he never gets up, that's—you're all right with that, are you?"

Her mask cracks. "I trust. I may not know why, but I trust. Or what do we have left? Dark Magic and destruction, and the Witch wins after all these years!"

When Edmund reaches for her, she crumples against him, sobbing. He staggers, lightheaded. He can't remember when he last ate or slept.

"Ask Him!" Lucy begs. "Please. For Peter."

Edmund holds Lucy's trembling body close. He looks down the slope to the guard around his brother. He thinks of Peter's blackened hand reaching for him, of the unknown first writer's cut-off entreaty: _Trust to—_

"Aslan." The name tumbles out of his mouth like a broken thing. "I… I am lost. I've done… so much wrong. Please—" his fingers bite into Lucy's arms, but she doesn't make a sound. He doesn't know who is holding who up anymore "—he doesn't deserve this; he never stopped believing in You. _I_ did. Save Peter, Aslan, please."

He was once nearly a sacrifice for evil. Perhaps now, willingly, he can be a sacrifice for good. Though he doesn't voice aloud his offer to trade, not with Lucy listening to his every word, he knows the Lion will hear it if He hears anything at all.

There is no response. The wind whistles emptily through the valley.

Edmund takes Lucy's hand. "C'mon, Lu," he says, "let's go back."

At Peter's side, Edmund gazes at the distorted face, superimposes Peter's features atop it: his flushed cheeks, his golden hair. He curls his fingers lightly around his brother's, tears dripping off his chin onto Peter's head, and he says goodbye. He says, _I love you_. He says, _I'm sorry_. He no longer asks for forgiveness. He knows Peter has given it already, unreservedly. That Peter has always dug him out of the darkness, out of terror, and has trusted Edmund to do the same in return. Peter has trusted to the Lion when he knew alone he wasn't enough, and Edmund sees that's what Peter was doing when he sent him away: all he could, and then trusting to Aslan.

Edmund hadn't trusted. He'd come back. Reckless, faithless. He would never stop making mistakes, and he would atone for them for the rest of his life.

He cannot comprehend a life without Peter. But that doesn't mean it won't be a reality. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he accepts Aslan's decision. He believes he can endure this. He chooses faith.

"Oh, My son, that is all I ask."

Edmund doesn't move, doesn't turn. If he looks, He may be gone.

But what kind of faith is that?

He looks up.

The Lion stands at Peter's head, larger and more brilliant than ever before. As Edmund looks upon him, the dawn finally breaks over the mountains and the sun shines into his eyes. Even as he screws up his face against the light, he dares not glance away, and after a moment the light no longer hurts. He remains crouched at his brother's side and Aslan remains equally still except for the swishing of His tail, watching him.

All around them, Lucy's guard becomes aware of the Lion, and slowly they sink to their knees. Lucy joins them, and Edmund is grateful she is not close enough to touch. He digs his nails into his palms until he draws blood. It is a familiar action. It is penance. It is not enough.

"I am ready, Aslan," he says lowly, "for whatever you wish of me."

"And if I wish to do nothing with you, Edmund Pevensie?"

He expects the words to scrape him raw, but they do not. They fill him with warmth and hope, but even so he hesitates. "But surely… I deserve punishment." He tastes bile on his tongue. "I gave in… her Word…"

"The Deplorable Word is one of the universe's worst creations, of this there can be no denying. That Jadis used it to destroy her entire world is unforgivable. That she brought the knowledge elsewhere, implanted it in other beings hoping to bring about their corruption is simply a manifestation of her evil disease. But, My son, Oh, My son, do you not see there is nothing for Me to forgive in you?"

Edmund feels as if he's been hit over the head. "I don't understand."

The Lion smiles, teeth bared, and Edmund recalls a conversation similar to this one, years prior, and his faith flares up in him like a pillar of dragonfire. "I didn't use it," he says quietly. "Aslan, I never used the Deplorable Word. The smoke that got into my mouth—I never said it."

"Was it truly the smoke, Son of Adam?" The Lion leans over Peter, still as stone, and breathes gently on him.

"No," Edmund says, "it was because I promised You long ago to keep Your faith. Because You forgave me. I promised…" he clutches his brother's hand. "I promised."

"Yea, though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you will fear no evil, for I am with you," the Lion rumbles, and Edmund feels like singing. "You brought Me the evil, and I destroyed it. You are strong, Sir Edmund Berun. And Peter is too."

As if called by the sound of his name, Peter arches upward, gasping. Edmund lurches forward and tears at his brother's armor, which falls away in broken metal shards, revealing new, pink skin. Edmund picks up the water skin lying at Peter's side and slides one arm under his brother's back, lifting him enough to tip a drink down his throat. Peter swallows greedily, then slumps against Edmund with a sigh. His eyes flutter open and Edmund drops the water skin to cup Peter's cheek, swallowing roughly around the lump in his throat.

"Hi, Pete."

Peter blinks blearily up at him. Already a faint blond fuzz covers his head, and Edmund is reminded of a newly-hatched chick. He struggles not to laugh.

"Edmund," Peter says thickly, testing out his unburned tongue, "you great lummox."

He does laugh then, holding Peter tight and looking across the valley to where Lucy walks with the Lion, her hand in His mane as they speak. She looks wonderfully happy.

"I know, Pete," he answers, "I know."

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**


	5. Five: Susan I

**Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Five: Susan I**_

 **Cair Paravel, Year 1003**

 **-/-/-**

After Lucy races out of the Cair on Adela, Susan gives a few more orders to Oreius, ensures the medics are standing by, and runs out of things to do. At a loss, she stands for a moment watching castle life blur around her.

"…jesty?"

"She startles but does not show it; turns to face Mr. Tumnus, who is watching her with a furrowed brow.

"Forgive me, Mr. Tumnus. I was thinking of other matters. Did you wish to speak with me?"

"I wanted to make sure you were all right, my lady." His expression softens. "I know you may feel frightened…"

"I am not frightened!" Behind the folds of her skirt, Susan presses sweaty palms to fabric. "I have faith, Mr. Tumnus. Aslan will see our family through."

The Faun nods. "Aye, my lady. That He will."

"If anyone should be looking for me, I will be in the library." Susan answers Mr. Tumnus's bow with a short curtsey, then sweeps from the courtyard with as much dignity as she is able—and that is a considerable amount.

Shutting the library doors behind her, Susan briefly leans back against the wood. Then, pushing off, she strides briskly down the aisles until she reaches the gap on the shelf left by Edmund when he took that evil book.

She doesn't want to think what he could be doing with it, doesn't want to think of what will happen if he fails and the dragon attacks the Cair.

For their safety, mothers and their young are being evacuated, but many have refused to leave, willing to bet on their monarchs and the strength of the Cair's walls.

Susan, of course, will stay until there is no one left.

Closing her eyes, she prays.

A warm breeze caresses her face, but with it comes the smell of smoke and a rustle of paper. Opening her eyes, Susan watches a scrap of parchment slide towards her along the floor. Heart thudding heavily in her chest, she bends to pick it up.

Though she does not recognize the handwriting or the Word, she knows enough to guess.

Susan takes two strides towards the library doors, then stops, turns, and goes to the fireplace. She holds the paper over the flames, hesitating. Her skin turns red from the heat. She withdraws her hand.

Calling for a servant, a Squirrel named Althea, she sends for a locket from her bedchamber.

When Althea delivers the necklace, Susan dismisses her, then examines the piece of jewelry closely. It is simple yet elegant goldwork, and until now has been empty. Popping the catch, Susan folds the paper as small as she can, then presses it inside. She drops the chain around her neck, slipping the locket beneath her gown. Then she sits ramrod-straight in the desk chair and waits.

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**

 **Source, previously uncredited: Psalm 23**


	6. Six: Susan II

**Guest: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm so glad you like it. Your comment actually made me consider an angle I hadn't thought of before. I wish I could work it in.**

 **Susan's 15.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Six: Susan II**_

 **Narnia, Year 1003/London, 1943**

 **-/-/-**

Susan wears the locket at all times. When she and Edmund eventually discuss what happened in the Eastern Mountains and he tells her the book was destroyed by dragonfire, he does not hide his relief. Susan resists the urge to touch the locket, does not tell him that anything of the book survived. Edmund stops wearing the key around his neck. She does not ask where he put it.

When they go out to chase the White Stag, the lock bounces beneath her riding habit. When they go back through the Wardrobe and emerge as children, Susan finds with disappointment but not surprise that the necklace remains a weight on her breastbone.

She does not tell anyone. It seems cruel to reveal she still has something tangibly Narnian in her possession when everything else is lost. And the Word inside is definitely not Narnian.

The day after they return from Narnia, Susan finds Edmund in one of the Professor's many rooms, scraping a carving off the bottom of a chair. She holds him while he cries.

Susan begins to take more advanced Latin once back in London. No one thinks it out of the ordinary.

For a few years, the locket tucked beneath her clothes is enough to keep her faith. But one evening at school, while changing, the necklace falls atop her nightgown. It is the first time she has looked at it properly in a long while. The chain is kinked, the metal dull. It is nothing like the beautiful piece of jewelry she remembers.

"What's that old thing?" one girl scoffs. "Got a beau, Pevensie?"

She stuffs the locket in a drawer. "No."

"No, you wouldn't, wearing that. Makes you look poor. You poor, then?"

Susan thinks of war rations, of patches on clothes. She remembers feasts, velvet and brocade. "No."

"Better look nicer, then."

"How?" She doesn't mean to ask. But she does.

"The girl turns to look at her consideringly. Her golden curls gleam. "You wouldn't be half-bad with a bit of makeup, Pevensie. Come here, I'll show you."

Susan allows herself to be seated on the girl's bed as the others gather around. She lets herself be painted and it feels false, but when the girl holds up a mirror, someone stunning stares out of it. Someone with icy blue eyes and jet black lashes; full, scarlet lips and rosy cheeks.

When she smiles, her teeth look like pearls.

"There now, isn't that a pretty sight?" The girl preens. "We'll go shopping this weekend; I'll show you where to get all this."

Susan hesitates. "I'll have to write home for money. And with war rations…"

"Say it's for books! Parents love that." The girl winks. "I'm Eloise, by the way." She holds out her hand.

"Susan." She takes it, shakes.

"Welcome to the ladies' world, Susie."

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**


	7. Seven: Susan III

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, everyone, this weekend was busy. I turned 21 :D Thank you for your patience, and here's your update!**

 **Guest: Thank you for your review! I'm glad you're liking the story.**

 **Susan's 18.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Seven: Susan III**_

 **Finchley, 1946**

 **-/-/-**

Susan doesn't take out the locket again until the end of winter hols three years later. She works it over with polish and unbends the kinks in the chain. Her red manicure chips, but she fixes it with ease, then places the necklace around her neck. It's a pretty little thing, just right to complement her outfit.

"Su, do you want to come with us to the Scrubbs' tonight? Even Mum and Dad are going—what's that?"

Susan's hand flies to her throat. "Edmund, what have I said about knocking?"

He ignores her question. His face has gone white. His hand grips the doorframe. "Susan," he says slowly, "where did you get that necklace?"

She tuts. "This old thing?" Her fingers tremble, though her voice is steady. "I daresay a market of some sort. I really don't recall."

"It's Narnian. Isn't it?"

Her breath stutters. "Edmund, don't be ridiculous."

"I know Narnian metalwork, and so do you. Why didn't you tell us you got something through?" He steps into the room, dark eyes filled with longing.

Susan stands quickly. "It's just a bit of jewelry, Edmund. I've got a date tonight and he comes from money, so I thought he'd appreciate the gesture. How do I look?" She spins. Her deep blue gown—dress—twirls outwards.

"Like a queen," Edmund says quietly.

She smiles. "Thank you, dear." Picking up her fur stole, a gift from Eloise ("I've already got four, darling, take this off my hands, won't you?"), she goes to her bedroom door.

"What's in it?"

Her hands lock around her elbows. "What?"

"It's a locket, isn't it? So what's in it?"

She shakes her head, careful not to dislodge any hairpins. Her stomach contracts painfully. "I don't know what you're talking about. Have a nice time at the Scrubbs'. I'm sorry I can't join you." She steps into the hall.

"Su," Edmund calls after her, voice tight.

She turns. He stands in her room, looking unbearably young. "Have a good evening."

Susan flashes him a grateful smile and heads downstairs, blowing kisses to her parents in the kitchen. They look up from balancing the family accounts to smile, though their shoulders are tense. She hurries past the living room.

"Is that you, Susan?"

She rolls her eyes heavenwards and edges into the room. Lucy looks up from her card game with Peter, one hand suspended over the 'draw' deck. She gasps in delight. "Susan, you look wonderful!"

Twisting her hips so the skirt flows, Susan beams. "Thank you, dear. He _is_ a catch."

Lucy puts down her cards, eyes alight. "Do tell."

Susan sidles closer. "You remember my friend, Eloise."

"Of course."

"Well, then you'll also remember she has a brother, heir to the family fortune…"

"Oh, Susan, I don't care about that!" Lucy laughs. "Is he smart?"

"I expect so."

Edmund, slipping in behind her, snorts. He sprawls full-length on the couch two spots of color high in his cheeks.

"And kind?" Lucy continues.

"Well…"

"And caring?"

"I…"

"I suppose anyone can be all three, with the money he's got," Peter snaps, rifling his cards. "Lucy, it's your turn."

She looks between them, crestfallen. "Oh, but…"

"So you're not coming tonight, then, Susan?" Peter studies his cards, doesn't look at her.

Edmund frowns. "Pete…"

Susan rolls her lips together, then hastily pulls out a hidden compact and re-checks her makeup. Her stole covers her torso, but she feels the necklace like a brand. "No, Peter, I made other plans."

"Naturally."

She snaps the compact closed. "Peter, that's not fair. You never talk about anything interesting."

"What, gossip and girls and the next party? No thank you, there are more important things to be done."

"But talking about them constantly is exhausting! And demoralizing. Don't you ever just want to discuss something light?"

"Don't you want to make a difference with your life, instead of becoming some man's trophy?"

Lucy jumps to her feet. "Peter!"

His ears turn pink, but Peter still doesn't look up at her. Susan sighs. "You were much better at politics in Narnia, Peter, I must say." She reaches over and tucks Lucy's hair behind her ear. "I'll be home after you're asleep, I expect. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow." She shoots Edmund a pointed look, and his eyes narrow. Glancing casually at Peter's cards, she remarks, "And I'd forfeit, if I were you. That's a terrible hand and you'll never bluff your way out of it."

By the time he glances up to respond, wry and shame-faced, she's shutting the front door behind her.

Susan has Eloise's brother, Rupert Montmorency, pick her up at the end of the street.

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**


	8. Eight: Susan IV

**Trigger warning: This scene may appear to some to be attempted rape. I promise you that is not my intent—it's Susan's Narnian principles warring with her 1940's principles. Anyone who wishes to discuss this further with me is absolutely encouraged to send a PM.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Eight: Susan IV**_

 **Finchley, 1946**

 **-/-/-**

"Susie? I say, Susie, come back!"

Susan tears away along the road, running awkwardly in her heels. Her breath scrapes at her throat and there's sweat flattening her hair, even in the cold night's chill.

"I say, Susie, it was just a bit of kissing! Come back to the car."

Susan chokes on a laugh. It had started as just a bit of kissing, to be sure, but when Rupert's hands had begun to wander… well, she has her reputation to consider.

"Honestly, Susie, it's all right! Look, I'll take you home. Only wanted a bit of fun, and Eloise said you'd be willing—"

She slips on ice and falls forward with a cry, catching herself on her palms and knees. She feels her skin shred.

"Christ, Susie, you all right?"

"She said what?"

Rupert Montmorency pants up to her, kneels. "Did you say something?"

"Eloise. Said. What."

In the dim streetlight, Rupert has the good breeding to look embarrassed. "She said… I asked if any of her friends would be up for a bit of fun, and she said you would. Said you'd like my car."

That _witch_. Eloise had specifically told her to compliment her brother's car. Susan couldn't even tell if it was quality, though based on the polish, and the leather and wood interior, it was certainly expensive. But that wasn't always the same thing, as tonight was showing her.

"I'm not that kind of girl Rupert." _I am a woman._ She rises to her feet. Her ankle throbs, her nose is running. She looks around wildly. Why are there no bobbies?

"I see that now, Susie. Let's go back."

"Don't call me that!" She shrinks away from his hand at her back and limps towards the car. "Take me home."

"Yes, _Miss_."

The drive is silent. Rupert turns onto her street.

"You can stop; I'll walk from here."

He keeps driving.

Susan's fingers dig into her arms again. "Rupert, stop."

"Where do you live, then?" He doesn't look at her. "How bad is it?"

"Stop right now or I'll scratch your car." She drops her hands to the seat, scrapes her nails threateningly along the leather.

"All right!" He brakes hard and her body jerks forward. "Just don't mess up the finish!"

Susan looks out the window and groans, dropping her head into her hands. They're right in front of her house.

Rupert grimaces. "Look, Susie—Susan, you're a nice girl, but I don't think this is going to work out, do you? I mean, we're looking for different things." He shifts uneasily in his seat when she doesn't speak. "Susan?" He sighs. "Eloise was so looking forward to doubling with us…"

Susan doesn't understand how this happened. She's been waiting for years for Eloise to pair her up with her brother, and Rupert had been so lovely and attentive all night. They'd had such a good time until…

But maybe that's the price one pays for the lifestyle? For keeping Rupert and securing something better for her family that would mean they wouldn't have to work all their lives. Peter could change the world—whatever that meant. Edmund could study. Lucy could travel. Her parents would be comfortable; medical bills a thing of the past.

It's politics. To get, one has to give a little, right? That's love too.

Only nobody else can see that. People expect her to be different things, and it's tearing her apart.

Susan swallows against the rise of bile. She lowers her hands from her face and they brush the locket. She wipes at her cheeks, then leans across the seat and cuts off Rupert's griping with a deep kiss. When she pulls away, he catches her wrist, dazed.

"Don't go."

Susan smiles. Her lipstick stains his mouth. "Come back tomorrow." Getting out of the car, she swivels her hips as she goes up the steps, smirking at the sound of his low whistle.

She leaves her fur stole in the car as a double measure.

Once the door closes behind her and she hears Rupert drive away, Susan collapses against the wall. The house is silent. Her family is still out.

Her whole body shakes. She grasps the locket and it digs into the cuts on her hands. Her palms are bloody.

Her face! She staggers to her room, kicking off her heels, and flings herself towards her vanity. The light illuminates a grisly sight: hair a bird's nest, makeup smeared, blood on her cheeks. She's a fright.

A freak.

Caught between two worlds, and banished from one of them. Maybe Peter will understand some day, or maybe he won't.

Not all change is the same.

Going to the bathroom, Susan bathes her scratches in warm water. Her ankle is yellowing. She removes her makeup and brushes out her hair, knocks the dust from her dress.

Settling back in front of the vanity, she holds her hands out in front of her until they no longer tremble. Then she takes off the locket and removes the piece of paper, unfolding it. She thinks back to her advanced Latin classes.

Outside, Susan hears an automobile turn into their lot, hears a car door open but not close. Distantly hears Edmund shout her name.

Squaring her shoulders, Susan faces her reflection in the mirror and says the Deplorable Word.

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**


	9. Nine

**Disclaimer: I don't claim.**

 _ **-/-/-**_

 _ **Speak**_

 _ **Nine**_

 **London, 1946**

 **-/-/-**

Outside their house, Lucy screams as a piercing whistle rends the air. She drops the ground, and Peter bends over her, sliding automatically into a protective stance. Ahead of them, Edmund forces himself towards the front door, even as his ear leaks blood.

"Edmund, don't!" Lucy cries, but he cannot hear her over the sound.

The door is unlocked. He spares them one desperate glance before shouldering his way inside.

The sound cuts out.

Peter squeezes Lucy's shoulders, and even though his mind is screaming _Edmund, Edmund, go after Edmund,_ forces himself to remain calm. "All right, Mum? Dad?"

"Sounded like an air raid siren," Mr. Pevensie says unsteadily.

"It was a fluke, dear, I'm sure. Let's go inside." Mrs. Pevensie nods firmly, links her arm with her husband's, and guides him into the house.

Peter opens his mouth to call them back, but there's no sense of evil coming from their house, and Edmund's inside. There's a light on in Susan's room, so she must be home early. He wonders if she'll be willing to speak to him, or if an early end to her date bodes ill for her mood.

"Lu, what was that?" Peter asks as he helps her to her feet.

Lucy shudders. "Evil."

Peter takes two fast strides towards the house before Lucy catches up, clutching at his hand. "Not anymore. Now there's just… nothing."

He slows his pace enough for her to keep up. They hurry inside, following the sound of muffled shouting. Peter reaches for an empty vase on a shelf as they near Susan's room, just in case, but Lucy shakes her head and he leaves it behind.

Standing in front of Susan and Lucy's bedroom, Peter pushes open the door.

"—could you be so stupid? Why didn't you tell me; we could have buried it. Do you even know what you've done?"

Susan turns to face Peter and Lucy, her expression carefully blank. "Hello. Did you have a nice time at the Scrubbs'?"

"It was, until Edmund said we had to get home because he wasn't feeling well," Peter answers stiffly. "How was… Rupert?" He scans the room, but there's no sign of danger, unless Edmund's red face and clenching and unclenching fists count.

Susan lights up. The change is astounding. "He was wonderful! Such a gentleman. We're going out again tomorrow."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "You are, are you?"

Her mouth twists into a sly and knowing parody of a smile, and he recoils. She's never looked like this before—like there's no Narnia left in her. "He wants me."

It's the crudest thing he's ever heard her say.

Lucy makes a pained noise. "Su, your hands!"

Susan tucks her hands behind her back, but Edmund lunges forward and pulls them into view. She tries to twist away. "Honestly, Edmund!"

Peter takes in her knees, her ankle, her unpainted face and still-puffy eyes. He sees red. "I'll kill him."

"No! No, Peter, it was nothing like that. I—I think I fell."

Edmund drops her hands like he's been burned, and she steps away from him.

Only Lucy's hand on Peter's wrist keeps him in the room, focused. "You think."

"I… I don't quite remember." She reaches up, and in a gesture she hasn't made since she was about nine, begins tugging at her hair.

Peter wants to throw up.

"She doesn't remember anything." Edmund's voice creaks, climbs. "You've erased it, haven't you, Su? With this?" He holds out a piece of paper.

Peter leans close, reads it, and feels a wave of nausea so powerful that he staggers. Whatever's written on that paper is Evil, is the source of the whistle they heard. How long has Susan had it?

Lucy doesn't even look. She goes to the bathroom, gets Susan a glass of water. Her sister drinks mechanically. Lucy's expression is calculating, but there's a spark of fear as well. Quietly, she says, "I don't think this is a drug."

No, it isn't.

"Susan," Edmund says lightly, as though speaking to a child. He holds up a locket, and Lucy gasps. "Is this from Narnia, Gentle Queen?"

For an instant something behind her eyes flickers in recognition, but then something far larger slams down in front of it. She shuts off. "Narnia?" Her voice sounds far away, but grows stronger, more scathing as she goes on. "Don't be silly, Edmund, that's a game we played as children. And I'll thank you not to mention it in the future."

"No, it isn't!" Lucy shouts, and Peter jolts in surprise. "It's real! Narnia's real!"

But Edmund shakes his head. "Of course, Su. Silly of me."

"Yes, very silly. Now do excuse me, I must get some sleep." She turns away.

"You can't have forgotten!" Lucy begins to sob. "You can't!"

Peter steers his baby sister from the room. Edmund follows, shutting the door behind them. They don't speak until they're safely ensconced in the boys' room. It feels like the only safe space in their house.

"It's not real for her, not anymore, Lu. She's locked it away somehow. I think it hurts too much to remember, to be both." Edmund turns the paper over and over in his hands.

Peter sits slowly on the edge of his bed. "Will she… ever…?"

Lucy curls up against him and he strokes her hair, guilt twisting in his gut. The way he spoke to her before she left…

Edmund tucks the paper into his pocket. "We'll wire the Professor to come get this tomorrow. He'll take it where no one can find it."

"Edmund."

"If Aslan wills it." Edmund sniffs. His shoulders shake.

Lucy sits up. She takes Peter's hand, and Edmund's, holds on tight. "We must trust to Him."

 **XXX**

 **London, 1949**

Their bodies are laid out in the church along with the others, but Susan cannot bring herself to look. She refuses to remember them like this, though others file past, whispering condolences.

The candle flames flicker. The choir sings. Eloise has come and gone. Rupert has been noticeably absent since she broke off their engagement two weeks prior, before… No matter. She prefers it this way.

Alone to mourn.

"Excuse me, Miss?" A courier boy stands before her. When she looks at him through her veils, he tugs on his cap. "Delivery for you, Miss, if you could just sign."

She mindlessly scribbles her name, and he passes her a small, light envelope. She opens it and unfolds a single sheaf of paper. A small scrap flutters out and onto her lap. The note, in an elegant hand, reads, _"You know what to do."_

"But who sent this?" Susan looks around, but the boy is gone. She picks up the scrap, yellowed with age and spotted with brown stains. The single faded word written on it has smudged. She sounds it out, lips moving without voice. It sounds like very bastardized Latin, and something else too, something not-right. She feels she's seen it somewhere, but can't recall where.

Shrugging, she stands and takes the rubbish letter over to one of the alcoves. This one has a sculpture of Christ on the Cross. A few fat tapers are lit. She feeds first the anonymous note, then the word, to the flames.

Susan cries out as the fire blazes up. She falls backward onto the hard stone floor, gazing up at the fiery head of a lion. She cannot look away.

"My Child," says the Lion, "it is time you wake from your slumber."

The vision disappears, the alcove goes dark, and Susan is alone. She feels a pressure building in her mind, like someone pressing against a wall, and though she tries to resist, the force is too great. Images and sounds rush at her, flood her, and she _remembers_.

Dropping her face into her scarred hands, the Gentle Queen weeps.

 **End**

 **-/-/-**

 **Please review!**

 **Though the ending is dark, I leave it up to each reader to interpret what Susan's future will be. Personally, I reject Lewis's misogynistic condemnation of Susan succeeding at being a modern woman, and I firmly believe she could find a way to merge her Narnian and English principles if she chose. But she had to be ready for hard work, for commitment, in a way she wasn't after being banished from Narnia. I think, at 21, having lost her family, she could be ready.**


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